The Northwest Quarter | Mandate One

[mat]

Through the underbelly tunnels of the arena, tributes can hear the clamoring of voices from above. It reeks of wet animal fur, clumps lying in the creases of the room as Peacekeepers guide each child to the arena. Each of them gets two guards: one to stand ahead of them and one to stand behind them. The faint glow of colored eyes behind a tinted helmet only looks straight ahead toward the light, a sign that the rules regarding interaction with tributes are now being enforced.

Aston, Adonis, Alexandre, Imogen, Zhiwei, and Simon are guided through to the northwest entrance of the arena. Although their quarter of the arena is not walled off from the other tributes, pergolas made of deep gray stone tower the area. The click of technology (Mallory Malachei's security cameras) promises the crowd that even those in obstructed seating will have an excellent view of the show.

The Peacekeepers handlers step aside once their tribute crosses a thin line separating the tunnel from the arena. Without word or instruction, they retreat to let the next tribute file in. The midsummer heat is present here, and already starving tributes are quick to feel the intensity due to their heavy uniforms. Sun shines through most of the arena, with the exception of the shadows cast by the cloth that connects the pergola beams together. In the darkness is a variety of weapons for the tributes to choose from. Tributes seeking to get away from the heat may look to fight for that space.

Nearby members of the crowd taunt the tributes with jeers and insults. "Hey! Ho! Fight each other, get on with the show!"

A microphone booms through the stadium, calling everyone's attention to the indented box where the important people appear to be standing. Within the core, there are two people, one man and one woman, dressed in all black. The man has his hands folded rigidly ahead of him while the woman taps ash from the end of her cigarette. A group of people in grey move around them, taking orders and writing notes on their wooden clipboards. The outer ring is filled with Peacekeepers and guards similar to the tribute handlers, standing at attention. The man in black steps forward with a dry yet stern and commanding voice. "Let the-" he begins to speak but pauses. His hand scratches the microphone, crackling through the speakers of the stands to command silence for the announcement all twenty-four tributes have been dreading. "Let the Ninth Annual Hunger Games commence."

---

Retro Engine Link: Here

As a reminder: tributes will post an introduction post to acquaint themselves with members of their mandate and interact if they so choose. Each tribute must post at least once before the deadline, but are welcome to continue interacting through the introduction period if they wish. Weapons are available under the pergolas of the arena, but attacking other tributes with weapon rolls is prohibited in the introduction stage.

Tributes will have 48 hours from now to post an introductory post. Further instruction will be given then.

d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg) gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕ lucius branwen / 10 — fox thompson harvard - d2b - arc

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

A S T O N M A Y B A C H

There is always a prep talk at the beginning of the race from Zak. A perfectly stitched together strategy that should get Aston over the finishing line first. There is none of that today. Just a peacekeeper in front of him, one behind him and a suffocating blanket of silence. All he has are the words of advice that Cordelia shared on the train journey here: “I won my Games by holding nothing back, and that meant playin' dirty when necessary…”

Play dirty, that is exactly what Zak says. Do everything. Literally anything. All morals vanish when that starting bell is rung. It is just him and the finishing line that matters. He can deal with the guilt once he has crossed it.

Aston’s eyes are on his feet and then on the heels of the peacekeeper that leads him through the tunnel. There is a musty tinge to the air, it is strong enough to latch on to his nostril hairs and swamp the back of his throat. A fist covers his mouth as he tries to block out the tainted air. It smells like wet dog and decomposing bodies, surely death is not here already. The race has not even begun. There are matted clumps of fur buried within the cervices of the tunnels, that is not a good sign. Aston has only mentally prepared himself to face other tributes. Not animals.

Hold nothing back.

His view is replaced from the peacekeeper’s butt to the restless crowd that drops barely audible remarks that rile something up within Aston. This is good, it is what he is used too. Whatever the crowd says during the races, be it negative or positive push him forwards. He is the one lining their pockets after all, there will cheer him on when he is out in front. And call him a good for nothing lame dead horse when he is falling behind.

Play dirty.

He is not alone in this quarter of the arena, their eyes are the first thing he sees before the pile of weapons. All these unfamiliar faces and then there is Imogen. The last time they had spoken, they had hoped to never see each other again. Such a short time together and Aston instantly liked his District partner, there will not be enough time in this world for him to learn more about his District partner.

”Imogen!” He calls out to her, making sure he is the first tribute to be anywhere near her. ”I thought we weren’t meant to see each other again.” Aston does not look her in the eye, his words are overshadowed by further taunts of the crowd up above. ”Do you remember what Cordelia said to us on the train? I will go to the other side of the arena. So we are not near each other…”

ELEGANT

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

I…really don’t know what I’m doing.

Which, compared to the duo from District One, is very frightening. The boy, nameless to me, immediately barks at his partner that they need to separate. To “remember what Cordelia said to them”, who must be the girl that won for them that one year. She’s given some aide to their potential in this… game, a cruel name to give to such a childlike concept. I know games. I know how to play Drip, Drip, Drop. I know how to give a piggyback ride or play hopscotch or any other games that children (and even I) like.

I don’t like this game.

It's a dangerous game where one fights for their life, and I do not know how to do that. The only lives I have ever cared about are the geese in the pond. Whenever my parents gave me a small stipend for helping out with the farm, I would go out and buy bread, break it up into smaller parts, and toss it out into the open to fill the geese's little bellies a bit more. My stomach grumbles, remembering what it felt like to hold the warm crust in my hands, and the fresh, yeasty smell inside the bakery that provided it. Sweet cinnamon and sugar are things that are good for your body, as your body needs food to live. My stomach twists and turns like water rushing from side to side in a sink as it finds its way down the drain. It feels empty, hollow, and painful.

On the train ride here, I didn’t speak to anyone. I didn’t talk to Mohamed or Samiyuq or Arlette. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. So I sat at the foot of my bed, locked away like some animal for transit, and clasped my hands together. And I just waited. Talking to people my own age, let alone adults, is a scary thing for me. My wheelhouse has always been the children - which was good. They’re so young and happy and not scared about what this country has in store for them, what fate has hidden in the shadows of their underbed. I was always more worried about making them happy - they deserve the joy that so many of us have lost.

Unlike my typical yellows and tans and khakis, my body is covered from head to toe in scarlet red as we stand in the sun. Sweat layered itself onto my arms and face and neck - making me feel sticky, and gross. The crowd chants, yelling at us to fight, but I don’t know how to do that.

I don’t know how to do much, if you can’t tell.

I want to run, I want to take a weapon and hold it in my hand and fight for my life. But I’m scared. I’m scared like the little boy seeing the loud, booming squawks of geese. As silly as it is - especially the fight at any moment, I stand, paralyzed by a current of fear, and confusion. The smell of wet fur clogs my nose, making it hard to breathe without smelling it.

Part of me hopes the kids who have become regulars to our weekly education days aren’t watching. They must save their joy for the birds, who won’t have the luxury of a 24/7 caretaker anymore.

[simon b there... physically]

[Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg)]

A L E X A N D R E

The realization that he might not be able to return home hit him as the guards escorted Alexandre out of his room. He followed, and sandwiched between the two guards, he thought about everything that had happened in the past two days. The ways the people crowded the area as he stepped off the train, the looks they gave him as they saw how small and young he was. The questions that Harlan asked him were starting to make more sense as the guards strapped him into his seat of the hovercraft. The Arena that Harlan mentioned is probably where he is headed now. He didn't understand why kids would leave every year and not return, but Alexandre was starting to assemble the pieces.

Alexandre holds onto the straps as the hovercraft takes flight, his legs swinging as they don't reach the floor yet. He thinks about how unprepared he is for survival. His focus has been on making his parents proud, doing his best in school, and showing that he can handle factory work like his daddy. Yet now he has to worry about survival? Alexandre's legs start to slow as he contemplates what that means. What is he going to have to do? Is he going to have to hunt for food? Try to find water? The fear builds up in his chest as he wonders about figuring out what berries he can eat or how to handle a bear in the wild.

When the hovercraft lands, he is quickly escorted out by new guards, who take him to a small room with a set of coveralls in a slate grey color. This outfit resembles what Alexandre's dad would wear to work, so he thinks they're getting sent to a factory-type setting. He wishes he was old enough to work now; he might have had an advantage. He could probably trail Zhiwei around as she is surely old enough to work and has experience. Once he's dressed, the guards escort Alexandre again, one in front and the other in the back, just as in the building where he slept the night before.

Only this time, he sees other kids walking alongside him, Zhiwei being one of them. He doesn't recognize the other kids, but hopefully, they won't see him, and he can hide. As they walk, though, he notices periodic drops of water falling down on him; he looks up and sees water falling through holes.

"Why would there be water in a factory?" Alexandre thinks to himself as they work their way up through the tunnels.

Once they reach the ground floor, Alexandre sees sunlight and is even more confused. Factories are usually dark, with some sunlight coming through. This is too much light to be an actual building. As the guards escort him toward the light and force him out of the tunnel, he notices how bright and hot it is. As other kids are accompanied behind him, he sees a tall structure with some shade made of a stone that is darker than his uniform. People cheer and are calling out for them to fight. Alexandre wonders why they would fight each other.

"Zhiwei," Alexandre starts, tugging on her outfit, "What is going on?" he asks as he sees weapons hiding in the shade of the stone statue. A voice calls out through speakers, and a gong sounds, and Alexandre doesn't know what to do other than just stand there.

ELEGANT

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

— A D O N I S —

Adonis tries to hide his disdain when they thrust the coveralls into his hands, ordering him to change before his transportation to the arena can commence. He wonders briefly if protesting in the name of fashion and refusing to wear the cheap work clothes might spare him a few extra moments of peace before the inevitable calamity — but as much as he wishes he could be humorous and hopeful instead of terrified, he cannot allow himself to be a fool. Not here, not now, and not with all that is at stake.

The young man's expression remains still and passive, blue eyes staring icy daggers into the skull of the peacekeeper who stands across from him. Something inside of him recoils at the idea of being treated like a prisoner, like a dog being tugged on a leash straight to the slaughter house, but for the first time in his existence he is forced to come to terms with the truth of his status. No amount of wealth or influence in the districts will ever compare to the might of the Capitol at large. He is no affluent firstborn son here, only a tribute walking towards his death sentence.

He pulls the coveralls over his lithe figure, glancing politely yet sarcastically to the dull and anonymous man before him. "Satisfied?" Gesturing at the long, dark tunnel that awaits him, he realizes that delaying a death match does not lessen the threat of it. "Then let us be on our way." If this is his destined end, the lone crow perched atop the Abadeer manor, then he will have no choice but to accept it. He is no stranger to life and its tendency to cease so suddenly; animals pinned to dissection trays with silent, unmoving hearts. What the others don't know is that Adonis is acutely aware of where to cut their most vital arteries.

But the scent of wet fur and filth clouds his bravado, forces him once more to realize the gravity of this situation with full clarity. There will be twenty-three obstacles standing between him and escape, and he is certain that at least half of them will be as ambitious as himself. Knowing where to slice into these people doesn't mean that they will hold still, or that they won't try to sink their blades into him in return. Truthfully, the idea of maiming strangers makes his stomach turn, as if he is betraying the legacy of his family. The Abadeers are healers and educators and leaders, and now he stands face to face with the grim possibility of becoming a killer. He finds himself wishing for a way to achieve his goal of survival without the blood sacrifice that is required.

When he reaches the thin line, the two peacekeepers wordlessly direct him to continue forward, leaving Adonis at the mercy of fate and her many wicked devices. He does recognize any of the strangers that join him in the next space, six individuals including himself. His fists tighten at his sides, knuckles turning white from the intensity. He can see a dagger glittering in the dim light only a short distance away, tucked halfway between the shadow of the structure looming before him and the ray of sunlight that trickles in from above. It is not lost on him that he should lunge for it now, dismiss the trivial small talk and get straight to the part where he has to murder innocent kids in order to go home.

Left to choose between becoming a corpse or a monster, he sighs. The jeers of the crowd around him make his lips turn downward, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the insensitive behavior. If he could pick up the blade and aim it anyone of his choice, his dilemma would not be such a terrible one. He turns to the group of tributes closest to him, not yet hearing the announcement that the Ninth Annual Hunger Games have begun. Because of this, he pretends that there isn't a chance all six of them might be bleeding out in a matter of minutes. They're just a group of teenagers all sharing a losing hand. When he speaks, he does so softly and calmly, so as not to draw attention from anyone but his fellow prisoners.

"I do not suppose any of you would like to give what the tributes in the Fourth attempted another try, would you? Smells like to me they have drowned all their muttations."

{ adonis enters mandate one }

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

Z H I W E I

► ► ►

After her wedding, Zhiwei came home to a bed laid with longfeng quilts and woven baskets of fruits and candies, glittering like rubies in the darkness.

They burned everything in the makeshift temple, burned the embroidered wedding coat she had worn in the cool summer night, all the offerings on the altar, and even the paper effigy of her husband. Her hair still carried the scent of wood resin and ember when the ceremony ended and she returned to their chamber alone.

She stayed awake in the darkness long after the house had quieted into sleep. The room was large and airy, the ceilings much higher than the ones in her own home. All the furniture was made from a wood that was lustrous and deep purple in colour, carved with the same pattern of sinewy botanical motifs. There was a soft breeze blowing in from the opened bay windows. The moonlight looked cold as it streamed through a gap in the curtains. She watched the beam of pale blue flutter with the wind.

She felt like Zhaojun, delivered to the northern grasslands as a bride to serve a country that had abandoned her.

Six decades of peace from one girl's suffering.

This was her room now, where she was supposed to be for the rest of her life. But she ended up spending only one night in the Huang house.

And then she was here.

She'd almost laughed out loud when her name was drawn in the Reaping. She did not cry. She sat on the train and stared at nothing and had the most absurd thought that they should replace the upholstery of the seats. There was a noticeable stain on the cushion she was sitting on, and this was, for some reason, unbelievably hysterical to her.

They dress her in a gray jumpsuit. Then, they line them up and herd them through the damp tunnel towards the arena. She feels very calm for some reason through all this. Sometime between now and her engagement, it seemed that she had died without knowing.

The heat is sweltering underneath the sharp glare of the sun. She can feel the sweat beading at her temples, and she brings a hand up to shield her eyes from the brightness, squinting at the colosseum towering around them. It makes her head spin, the sheer size of the structure, built up towards dizzying heights. Looking back down again, the other tributes are scattered across the sand. The duo from One look ravenous, like gilded carrion birds, circling each other. They're swimming in light.

Alexandre trails after her. He looks even smaller next to the other tributes. He pulls on her sleeve, voice trembling, and she finds enough sympathy to clutch his hand for a moment, glancing at him just as the gong sounds. She lets go of him, and turns towards the others.

"You should run," she murmurs.

The pile of weapons gleam in the warm sun.

Sicheng did not want his bride to be alive apparently.

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

imogen van doren.

There wasn’t much she could do.

After her name was pulled from that clear glass bowl, her life began to spiral. She didn’t need to see them to know her parents were sobbing, and not the same type of tears they shed when she won Miss Teen Queen Supreme. Each delicately placed puzzle piece was slowly falling from its designated spot.

And it took everything in her not to break down.

They placed her in a hideous tan jumpsuit (thankfully she could make anything work) and escorted her through the tunnels towards her more or less certain death. The stench was putrid, smelling of rot, mold, and other unimaginable things. The two Peacekeepers seemed unphased as the trio paraded in silence, footsteps echoing amongst the silent halls.

”So…are you two new here?”

Crickets.

Most couldn’t resist but to be charmed by her alluring smile, but these two seemed to take their job very seriously.

”Nice!”

Before she had a chance to ramble, the promise of sun broke through the end of the tunnel. Imogen’s breath became shallow, her palms clammy, and her forehead glistening with sweat.

The cheers of the crowd pierced her ears before she even managed to step through the archway.

The men in white disappeared and she forced herself to stumble into the arena. Her eyes squinted as they began to adjust to the new lighting, taking in each of her surroundings as strategically as she could. Weapons on a table, the only shaded spot in the whole place. Knives? It was hard to make out, but she crossed her fingers and prayed. There were five others scattered about.

And the one face she had hoped to never see again ran to her side.

”Imogen! I thought we weren’t meant to see each other again.”

”This must be there idea of some sick joke,” a small breathy laugh escaped her lips. As if this whole thing wasn’t a joke already.

”Do you remember what Cordelia said to us on the train? I will go to the other side of the arena. So we are not near each other…”
”Yes, yes, go. I remember,” she hesitated but then grabbed his hand, holding tightly for a fleeting moment. ”But not too far. It might useful to have a friend nearby…” Imogen’s words were nothing more than a whisper, she didn’t want the cameras or other tributes to hear. But having someone you can trust (even if only temporarily) might be the difference when it comes to life or death in this wretched place.

”Well, I don’t think they are going to let us stand here much longer unfortunately.”

She knew the end was coming. She knew her face was being plastered on screens and TVs for all to see. But worst of all-

She knew her parents were watching.

A lump grew in her throat that she forced herself to swallow back. Some may say its hopeless, some may say it was time for her to pass on her titles, but she knew better.

The crown is in sight.

And Imogen has always been taught to keep her eyes on the prize.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

It’s the smell in the basement levels that should’ve given it away first.

Moist, rotting wood, the stench of it reigns in the underbelly of this colosseum. Mixed with the stank of manure left behind by muttations from games past, stairwells spoiled by moldering wood and rat droppings. It smells like stale dust and congealed blood, sweat and unwashed clothing. A tumorous disease, there was nothing any of them could have done to stop what was coming.

Maybe if someone had been paying attention, but none of them were.

“KILL HER!” A man wearing gold all over shouts down at the boy from One. “Quit makin’ eyes at each other!”

There’s a collection of eye rolls when Alexandre looks up at Zihwei with wide eyes while Adonis begs for mercy and courage in the same breath.

“Pathetic!”

None of them pay attention to the pair of leaders wearing black. Everyone has their eyes trained on what is happening below them on the ground, the collection of children being paraded in the ring like animals to the slaughter. Some people make a chorus out of boo’s while others whisper in each other’s ears, placing bets and making jokes at their fellow spectators' expense. The woman in black takes a long drag of her cigarette before dropping it abruptly. The embers of it stay alight, in pieces at her feet, but she barely notices.

A crow lands on the highest point of the colosseum, standing strong against the light filtering in from the gray sky above.

In an instant, she knows; she grabs at her partners arm, making a flailing gesture towards it, eyes going manic.

“JOVIS, IT CAN’T HOLD THE WEIGHT—” is the last thing everyone hears her shout before there’s a loud cracking noise that reverberates from beneath all of them. It sags along the edges first, wood caving in on itself under the weight of newly installed water tanks, the heavy fiberglass walls that had been placed simply to prevent any water splashing into the audience, fools. They’d been fools. 

It starts with rubble. 

Heavy debris falling from the floor as the tributes lose their balance, wood giving way. At first they find themselves dropping back down into the cellar, the very area in which they had been led into this deathtrap from in the first place. The newly installed walls cave in at awkward angles, warping and twisting as they pin some tributes by their legs, their arms, forcing them to try and wrench themselves free. Some of the tributes find themselves toppling into the cages of muttations being kept beneath the floorboards, while others try and scramble over the falling rubble, climb towards the stands filled with now screaming audience members. They find themselves near doorways that must lead to freedom, the chance to escape right there at the tips of their fingers if they could just work up the nerve to make it happen.

Somewhere in the stands above though the pair in black look at each other wide eyed before saying something to each other quietly.

"We have to flood it."

Intended use forgone, the pair sends two avox to their deaths to redirect the water source and the tributes witness freedom slip through their fingers like water as a flood surges through the lower levels, trapping them all in watery graves.

---

Retro Engine Link: Here

As a reminder: each tribute must post at least once before the deadline (September 5th, 3PM EST), but are welcome to continue interacting through the period if they so wish. Tributes must roll their d100 in their first post, and may not attempt another until Round Two begins, provided they survive. Attacking other tributes continues to be prohibited.

Best of luck trying to survive the flood!

Tributes will have 24 hours from now to post for Round One.

ROUND ONE: TRIBUTES MUST ROLL A 25 OR HIGHER IN ORDER TO SURVIVE.

d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg) gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕ lucius branwen / 10 — fox thompson harvard - d2b - arc

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

ASTON MAYBACH

”But not too far. It might useful to have a friend nearby…” Imogen squeezes his hand and he looks down at it a little too long after she lets go. ”We can’t be near each other in here. I can’t k-.” kill you. Having a friend is an advantage, like a tag team or a relay race but Aston knows what will come next when it is just them two left standing. Friendships are fragile, they can shatter at any moment. The only friends Aston needs in this arena is a sane mind and a plan…

Don’t hold back. Play dirty.

It is not a long-structured plan, but it is straight to the point.

The swords piled up look straight to the point too. Aston picks one up, measuring its weight in his hand with a short bounce in the air. He has no idea what to do with it but if he runs around fast enough, menacingly enough that should scare anyone off right? It won’t take much to scare the competitors he shares this quarter of the arena with. They look limp at the starting line. There is even a little kid in here and a guy questioning whether they should replicate what the tributes did during the 4th annual games.

Aston is dressed in a beige overall, so much material draped over his skin under this beating summer sun. The action has not even begun yet and his underarms are already dispersing what little fluids his body is holding. Aston rests the hilt of his sword against his hip and begins to undo the top half of the overalls, he pulls it down from his chest and ties the sleeves around his waist. That will air him out just a little bit.

His spicy cologne has faded, or it is competing with the overwhelming stench that has followed him from the tunnels.

”What happens now?” He asks anyone wanting to answer as he draws a line in the sand with the point of his sword. Early bird catches the worm, a jumpstart will put him well, but he can’t burnout too quickly.

”Kill her!” Someone calls out from the crowd, just above from where he is stood. Aston looks at Imogen and shakes his head then those words don’t hold back replay in his mind. All those chants and cheers that he is used to, run faster, push harder…kill her.

Aston looks at the one that told the little kid to run, kill her…

There is a rumble beneath Aston’s feet, a quake that shakes right up to his hip bones that stops him from getting any closer to that girl with his sword. It feels like the charge has already begun, that the other competitors have left him in the dust, but nobody is running. All eyes are on the ground that they stand on and then it vanishes, along with Aston Maybach.

Aston lands against metal with a thud, his whole left side of his body takes the impact, and he rolls before his head kisses his metal. The world caves in around him. But his heart is still beating, frantic in his chest. He is alive. And so is the thing in the inside the metal cage that he has landed on.

His eyes connect with the ragged foisty smelling animal, the source of the torture penetrating his nostrils. Aston bounces straight off the top of the cage, right to where his sword has landed. He swipes the blade, pointing it towards the animal that is secured…for now.

”Imogen are you in here?” He calls out, both hands shaking while they point the sword towards the irate beast that his headbutting its door. The arena is still crumbling around him, shrapnel and wood barely miss him as it lands in the cellar. ”If you are down here, just run!” Aston shouts over the crowd that has swapped its taunts for terrifying pleas.

The collapsing arena is not just the end of it. His feet feel damp and quickly follows his ankles. There is a whole wave of water that forces him against another secured cage behind him in the cellar. The water levels rise quick, rinsing away the dust that accumulated on his bare chest. At least he does not have to worry about the heat anymore. Instead, he must worry about drowning or those locks on the cage doors coming loose.

Don’t hold back. Play dirty.

There is nobody swinging a sword at him in here or hacking away with their axe. It is a one-man race in this crushing cellar. He is his only competitor. Aston will have to fight himself to stay alive. There is a will inside of him to push…

ELEGANT

Aston Maybach attempts to survive | his life.

CoXxro0Kb01-100

1-100

[Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg)]

A L E X A N D R E

"You should run." She murmurs to him, so run he does. The Arena is a circle, so there no clear places for Alexandre to hid, but maybe he can get on top on the stone buildings. He knows that he's not strong enough to fight, but he's strong enough to carry himself up those stone buildings. He notices that a bigger boy from One grabs a sword inspecting it, and Alexandre does his best to not try any attention to himself. He has to put un a brave face he has to. Yet, his hands can't stop trembling. He knows now what's happening, that he has now become a gladiator of old. That there's only one of two ways that this can end. He can either run, like Zhiwei told him to, and out run everyone else, or he dies.

He makes his way to the back of the stone structure, trying to remain as quiet as possible, however the heavy boots are anything but quiet. Luckily enough though the boy doesn't seem to notice Alexandre. Looking directly across the arena, he sees a girl trying to climb as well, so he copies her moves, trying to find anything to grip and step onto as he slowly makes his way up. The pumping of his blood is loud in his ears as he focuses on climbing, his vision tunneling at the beam that he is climbing.

Alexandre doesn't notice the floor of the arena creaking. He barely notices a women shouting something about weight, doesn't notice the edges of of the arena floor caving in before he tumbles down into the bottom floor of the arena.

Alexandre stands up, considers himself lucky to not have had any rubble fall on top of him, and tries to figure out what happens next. That is when he notices the water that is rapidly coming in, and Alexandre freezes, not knowing how to survive a torrential flood. He tells himself to move, but to what? Something that can float? A place where to where the water isn’t so heavy? He looks around and does just that.

ELEGANT

g6geVk65ae1-100
1-100

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

imogen van doren.

All it takes is a few seconds.

To live.

To die.

To lose everything you once had.

Imogen didn’t dare to breathe, let alone blink. Every fear she ever had came crashing over her at once. Even her worst nightmares.

But still, she was afraid to lose it all.

Aston stares for a moment, not daring to move.

”We can’t be near each other in here. I can’t k-.”

He stops, but she forces herself to continue.

”No, not unless there’s no other choice,”

Without another word he takes off. It takes her a moment to realize where he’s headed, and she sprints after him towards the pile of weapons. Running wasn’t her strong suit, but she forced herself to look as elegant and glamorous as she could, her intricately braded ponytail flowing behind her. Her eyes skimmed the grouping of weapons quickly, as she wasn’t sure how much time she would have before the others joined her at the table. Knives places precisely in line, their blades gleaming and hilts recently polished. Quickly, she snatched up the group, twirling one between her fingers before facing the others.

”What happens now?”

We die.

Imogen opens her mouth to speak, but all that can be heard is the panic screams of the crowd. The shattering of glass reverberates throughout the coliseum. Her voice joins the crowd in harmony as she feels the floor crumble beneath her feet, and the world comes crashing down around them.

Excruciating pain splinters through her leg and she bites her lip to keep herself from screaming. The stench of the tunnels washes over her and she forces herself not to gag. Creatures room about in cages, howling to be set free.

”Imogen are you in here? If you are down here, just run!”

”Aston! Where are you?! I think my leg might be broken…”

But her voice is drowned out by the rushing of water and the floor around her began to flood. Panic set in as she realized what was happening and she braced herself for the worst. Another gush of water, this one hitting her in the back of the head, sending her toppling forward. Imogen did her best to stand, but the water was rising too quickly. It was moments before it rushed over her head, forcing her down underneath the cool liquid. Her lungs began to burn as water filled them.

It was coming to an end.

She could feel it.

And finally, she dared to blink.


aH5kX9my8o1-100

1-00

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

— A D O N I S —

Disaster follows his half-hearted joke like an omen.

Like dominoes cascading, tumbling, falling — always leading to the same end. One moment he is trying to believe that hope is still a living creature, that he does not need to sacrifice his civility in the name of survival. But then time freezes around him. No one responds to his musing, they just stare forward. No embers of hope are left burning inside their chests. They know as well as he does what would happen if they ever tried to take a stand against their punishment.

The truth is clear as day, shining like the daggers lying in the dirt. Separated from his manor, from his privilege and power, from his little space in the world that had been carved out so perfectly for him to fill — Adonis is aware of the harsh facts. He is not special, and he is not strong, and no amount of knowledge or animal trivia can change reality. His matter has already formed, his identity has set its roots deep in him, he knows that there is no way to step away from the person he currently is.

Someone who uses his words like a shield — takes his feelings and turns them into sonnets, metaphors, and playful taunts. The silver spoon in his mouth tastes tarnished now. He has always known how lucky he is to have received his education, to have his surname, to have never wanted for anything more than what was already stacked in front of him. His glittering horde of treasures; his spot by the fireplace, his private bookshelf in his father's study, the knowledge that every person in his tiny, beautiful, limited existence could call him a friend. That feeling of security had been his very namesake. His birthright.

A warning for how this tale will end: the prince leaves his castle, and he finds the world outside to not be so kind.

The boy so taken with his books and his ambition trades his two loves for a single blade. As soon as the commencement is announced, he tucks away his thoughts and his worries and seals them behind his glassy stare, so charged with adrenaline that he clutches the knife until his knuckles turn white — but he doesn't lunge, doesn't chase after anyone, he just holds his ground and tries to keep his breathing steady. It's as if everything is vibrating around him. The war in his mind eats its way to the surface. Is he truly willing to do whatever it takes to win?

He sighs,

and then the floor collapses.

The dagger goes flying out of his flailing grasp, the air knocked out of his lungs as he topples and twists in a downward spiral. Lost within his own inward struggle, he missed the sounds of commotion, the telltale signs that calamity was moments away from striking. And now, he thinks that having his head cracked open against a pile of debris might be worse than having to face becoming a murderer. If he felt powerless then, he feels like a paper doll now. Fate has placed him in the fireplace, and now he is succumbing to her design.

When he hits the floor with a thud, he loses consciousness for a few moments — there is a meadow that seems eerily familiar to the one less than a mile away from his home, but the color of the wildflowers is all wrong. The edges of the picture are tinged black, a blurred recollection. He sits there for a moment, holds his sketchbook on his lap and details the anatomy of a robin. It's beautiful. Vibrant reds ands blues, feathers that seem so real. As if he could pluck them from the page. And then he remembers that Landon is the one who draws, and none of this is true.

—and he comes to with a gasping sputter, water rushing up his nose and collecting in his mouth. He shakes his head and rises to his feet, trying not to fall back down from the way his perception sways and teeters. It's all he can do to glance up briefly, trying to make sense of the newfound circumstances and where he now finds himself, but the flood does not relent. It surpasses his thighs and starts to rise to midsection, the current pulling at him and urging him to give in. To just be swept away. To finally be done with all this tragedy.

But he is the owner of it: and he will not part so easily.

Inhaling as deeply as he can, allowing himself a few more seconds to regain his composure, the water is passing his chest when he finally gives in to the current and dives into it. When he surfaces, he swings his arms with all his might, doing everything in his power to keep himself above the waves, above the ill-omened death so intent on cutting his young, happy life short. He will not allow fate to steal him away so easily.

And so he swims.

{ adonis attempts to stay afloat }

QuBpHmaD611-100

1-100

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

Z H I W E I

► ► ►

Alexandre heeds her warning. She watches him disappear and reappear on one of the stone structures, slowly climbing his way up.

Smart boy, she thinks.

The sun feels vermillion in its heat. In a strange daze, she watches the tributes approach the pile of weapons, half cautious, half eager.

Her father used to go to a fortune teller who charged twenty dollars for a reading, always seeking validation for his next gamble. It was funny – he'd rather listen to a suanming shifu than to his own wife. Sometimes Zhiwei wondered if she should have just paid the man fifty dollars to tell her father that he would never succeed in business, that he should try to live quietly and gratefully instead. It would have saved them twenty years of grief.

She listens to the blood murmur in her veins, soft, flinching beats in her ears. She remembers how her father told her that this was her fate, as divined by the matchmaker, to marry Sicheng.

And fate was inevitable according to men.

She should accept her death. And yet her body willfully keeps her alive, moving towards the knife. Suddenly, her hand closes around the hilt.

There's a crack as loud as thunder. The floor splits open like the violent parting of a sea, and they fall through the air for a moment before the tide comes to cradle them. The water is cold and murky. It crashes into her and pulls her underneath the pearlescent surface.

wJ78hIY5FJ1-100

1-100

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

It doesn’t take long for the crowd to get bored. Which is silly - like, if you wanted us to die faster, come on down here you lazy bird! They’re jeering at us, demanding us to ”kill her” and “quit makin’ eyes at each other!” I didn’t know I was here to please the crowd. Not that I was here to live, anyway - I expect my death to be relatively quick, and the weapons that sit in the center give an excellent pathway to that.

Enclosed in a box, resembling the worst plaything for kids, is a pair dressed entirely in black. One of them is smoking a cigarette carelessly, dropping the embers at her feet. "How wasteful," I ponder, considering the effort required to manufacture those. No wonder she's stuck with the job of supervising us. My dad has them too, but only occasionally, as my mom calls them "death on a stick," which my dad isn't particularly bothered by.

One more caw from the crowd says that this is ”pathetic” which is odd to consider. Did he expect a winner already? I’ve never paid very close attention to the Games. I was always concerned that something within the veins of this cruel event would ruin my performance at work. That it’d pollute my mind, or something, and I needed my mind to be clear and pure for the children. It’s for the best, yeah?

Seconds pass as the other tributes accustom themselves- one asks what we do now, and two pairs of tributes from the same district talk amongst themselves. My eyes watch the weapons like they’re alive, and I’m scared they’ll jump at me any moment. Suddenly, a voice screams, belonging to the woman that held a cigarette.

“JOVIS, IT CAN’T HOLD THE WEIGHT—” crack, boom.

The world, as I know it, breaks. And my body bends with the break as I twist and turn and hit the ground as the arena shakes. I was never strong on my feet - not that I ever really had to, I was good at standing in one spot where the ground doesn’t shake, or the structures are secure.

They aren’t secure, the wood is just as rotten at home, but at least I know where I’m at when I’m home. Water, at first, starts to push it’s way into the arena. It doesn’t take long for the push to become a tidal wave, pushing my body up and giving me leverage to look around. It all happened so fast that I didn’t know what to do.

If I were a duck, I’d be fine. But I’m no duck, swan, or bird that can simply float on water. The water starts to hug my body and I try to reject it’s loving touch. The water starts to crash into the walls surrounding me, and the others are just as quickly trying to stay afloat. The game, this time, victory isn't as much about who you can kill. It seems to be how much you want it.

For the kids, I need it.

T_hotGNjPG1-100

1-100

[mat]

The plexiglass barrier that once protected the crowd from the tributes, as well as the tributes from the crowd, has shattered into millions of shards. Railings at the front row bend inward toward the arena, hands of the Capitol's richest swiping forward to catch their clunky cameras and popcorn. Thankfully, most of the crowd stands remain intact.

Audio from microphones hidden in the corners of the pergola picks up sound from beneath the arena. Hidden behind the violent sound of crashing overflow in the depths is the gasping for air, flailing splashes to keep afloat, and calls for other tributes to ensure they're okay. The cameras show some murky visuals of tributes in this corner fighting against the tide or trying to reach higher ground in the rubble.

Jovis pinches his lip, trying to hold back a smirk. OH NO! some thought. Him? Oh no!!! A tragic accident, but to him, a deserved one.

Capitol citizens stay close to the exposed collapse, members of the crowd from the above sections moving down to inspect the damage. There are some who throw their full cups of soda and buckets of popcorn down into the rubble, offering to help the flood with their own food and beverage. If the tributes are lucky, they might get some food that they've been waiting for. After seeing the chaos, the commanding voice that announced the start of the Games demands them to stop. Have they learned nothing from when Capitolites mobbed the train station to accost the tributes? "Members of the crowd are reminded that interference in the Hunger Games is strictly prohibited. Those who violate this rule will be detained." The man, perhaps many will assume to be Jovis after calls during the collapse, sends Peacekeepers and guards to various deviant crowd members.

The two leaders, dressed in black, confer. He whispers to her, "They won't live forever down there. Give them some time, and then we'll send guards to recover the bodies. Maybe there'll be a survivor." The inflection in his voice gives anyone within earshot that he hopes there aren't any to be found.

Within the collapse, pieces of the rubble break down further. No part of the arena's underbelly is stable. Capitol dogs growl in wait. Rats bite at the food fallen from the crowd. Snakes travel with the water's flow. The new terrain of the arena is only getting smaller, and the water rises, preparing a new Atlantis for the tributes.

---

Retro Engine Link: Here

As stated: all tributes will take damage over time, regardless of whether they pass the survival check or not, to be sure that there will eventually be a victor. The roll below will represent how much damage each tribute in this mandate takes. This damage can be interpreted by the tributes as they see fit! The new survival threshold is 30.

M6yVnqCAzL4-84-8